


Scar Tissue

by unconscious



Category: Arrow (TV 2012), Constantine (TV)
Genre: Coda, Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 10:54:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5287970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unconscious/pseuds/unconscious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There’s something unnerving about Oliver. Oliver is trying so hard to be good. He has warmth at the surface of his flat blue eyes. But below it, in that deep center that most people can’t find but John can’t seem to release, it’s just--empty.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>4x05 coda.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scar Tissue

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Шрамы](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11712252) by [DarkMoska](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkMoska/pseuds/DarkMoska)



> intended to be actual slash but didn't work out that way. pre-slash implied (sort of). short coda, hope to write more of these two. comments/kudos much loved <3 thanks for reading!

The Arrow lair, if John can even call it that, is sterile. “Command post” is probably a better term. Or just “basement.” It’s shiny, humming, scrubbed clean and gently glowing, like an inoffensive lighting scheme will help cover the faint smell of bleach. It’s cold. The glass cases displaying everyone’s costumes are a bit much. John thinks costumes are a bit much in general, honestly, but God help the poor souls with nothing but their fists to protect them.

In the center of the room, on the raised platform ringed by Felicity Smoak’s computers, Oliver Queen is on hands and knees, scrubbing at the paint John used for Sara’s soul restoration. Thought Oliver would have robots or something for that.

“Leave it, mate,” John says, shoving his hands in his pockets, like he can burrow further into his coat against the strange chill. He’s felt chills that mean things, before, hair-raising premonitions and gusts of bone-smelling wind, but in here, he can’t figure out if the gooseflesh is from some ominous side effect of the spell. There’s something unnerving about Oliver. Oliver is trying so hard to be good. He has warmth at the surface of his flat blue eyes. But below it, in that deep center that most people can’t find but John can’t seem to release, it’s just--empty.

Oliver sits back on his haunches. His brow furrows when he sees John, standing in front of the elevator’s backlit doors, but he doesn’t seem too surprised. “How’d you get in here?”

John pulls a hand from his pocket to waggle a hand at Oliver. He tries to relax the tense line of his shoulders. “Magic fingers.”

With a huff, Oliver drops back down to continue working the paint. “Did you forget something before you left?”

“Well,” John says, “Could do for a drink. Oh, and if you leave the paint overnight, it’ll dry into a lovely pattern of ashes that you can sweep into a little pile of ashes and toss out. Might leave behind a bit of a smoky smell, but that could do you some good to drive the bleach smell away.”

“It doesn’t smell like bleach,” Oliver says automatically. But he does stand up, leaving the rag on the floor. Oliver’s wearing jeans and a grey t-shirt that pulls across the breadth of his shoulders. He’s frightening when he’s at his full height, moving gracefully and light-footed and a little tense, like a caged jaguar. He reaches into a small filing cabinet next to the computers and pulls out with a bottle of dark whiskey. “Will this fulfill your needs?”

“Oh, yes.” John climbs the steps to the platform. He drops into one of the rolling chairs and stretches his feet out. “Just what the doctor ordered.”

“Why are you here, John?”

“Can’t two old mates catch up, post-disaster? Plus, I thought your assistants might’ve buggered off by now.”

Oliver crosses the platform to tower over John while offering a modest drink in a highball glass. “They’re not my assistants,” he says.

The first time he met Oliver, John's head was pounding from a good old-fashioned beating and the dirt was damp under his knees. When he'd looked up, Oliver was there, standing stick-straight in his fatigues, holding a gun as naturally as most people handle their cell phones. He’d looked down his nose at John, quickly surveying in ways John was used to surveying himself: how could this man be useful to me? Is it worth the trouble? John sees that same question now. 

“You don’t seem too happy to see me,” John says, holding the glass close to his face so the rich, sharp scent covers the overly clean smell of the basement and the lingering leather smell he doubts ever fully leaves Oliver’s skin. Oliver stalks back to the other side of the platform and drops into the other chair, sitting in a similar position, but without the lethargy-- like he could leap up and strike at any moment. “You actually seem a bit unnerved,” John continues, even though he knows it’s a bad idea, who can resist poking a finger into the jaguar’s cage?

Oliver lifts his own glass to his mouth and takes a sip of his drink. “I meant what I said, John. If you need me, I’ll come. For business.”

“Just business, eh? Can’t give you a ring when I’m in town and want to check out the most expensive, exclusive clubs?”

“Why are you really here, John? I thought you’d be on your way back to Manchester as soon as you heard Dahrk’s name.”

He should be. He really should be. 

“You keep the tattoo?”

Oliver rolls his eyes. That’s unexpected. Looks like vigilante life has softened him a bit. He pulls his shirt up, revealing the smooth dips of his abs, his scarred skin, and there, faded but intact, are the four characters John transferred to his flesh as an impulsive boast. “Ever going to tell me what it is?”

“Just didn’t want you to forget me,” John says. That’s true enough.

“John,” Oliver says, and stands up, looming over the computers like he has any idea what to do with them. “I did mean it--”

“I heard you the first two times,” John says. It’s easier to speak to the line of Oliver’s back, not with those flat eyes searching his own. “But I don’t think you meant it, at least not the way you claim to mean it.”

Oliver takes a sip of his drink.

“I think,” John continues, because the whiskey is warm in his chest, and he thinks he may not see Oliver again after this if he doesn’t get his hackles up, and he’s not going to be another name called when Oliver has trouble. He will be a scar atop scar tissue if he must. “You rely on these professional deals, you know, the I’ll-scratch-your-back-you-scratch-mine thing you like so much, to make up for the fact that you don’t really, I mean genuinely, care about any of the people you work with. That you’re bored.”

Oliver turns around, his face stony. “John--”

“Hear me out, hear me out.” He takes a sip of his drink, going silent to do it, the line of his throat working as he swallows. And for some reason, Oliver does not interject. “Who do you work with, those non-assistants, that you haven’t trained?”

“Dig,” Oliver says automatically, and then snaps his jaw shut.

“Your partner-slash-bodyguard-slash-boyfriend, Diggle, right. But you did train him, in vigilantism. And he hasn’t been quite up to snuff, has he? He’s not onboard with your methods.”

“He’s--”

“And someone else trained Thea, that’s easy to see, and whatever dark magic you got entwined in her soul isn’t helping. You’ve been working to rectify that, though, that’s clear.” It’s all coming together in John’s mind now, these quasi-helpful people Oliver surrounds himself with, this facade of a normal life.

“John.”

“And Laurel? She can barely fight. Felicity? She’s smart, sure, but not the kind of smart you find enticing-- mostly just frustrating, right? She’s a beacon of stability and-slash-or normality and what, GPS tracking? What can do they do without you? Are they successful without you?”

Oliver slams his glass onto the desk. The sound of glass meeting stainless steel echoes into the high ceilings. John stands up, just in case, the threat of a fight buzzing in his veins.

“What is this about, John?” Oliver says, his voice low.

“This is a warning, Oliver,” John says. “You’re bored. You’re pushing your colleagues to your own limits, and they won’t last. They’re not like you. They’re normal people, Oliver. Who can you not defeat? Who poses an actual risk? Who can do things that challenge you, that you don’t understand?”

It's supposed to be a tease. Just a prodding little thought to burrow into Oliver's mind and fester there, make him see what he's doing. It comes out a boast. Oliver narrows his eyes, and yes, oh, that's scary, but it's scarier that the barbed question is immediately answered.

Then Oliver huffs a laugh. “You really think you could beat me in a fight? I watched you fight in the other realm, remember?”

“I know this is hard to believe, Mr. Tough Guy, but I do have a little more brains than brawn.”

Oliver stalks off the platform and goes to examine a fresh batch of arrows mounted on a steel table. “My team is fine,” he says. “I’m here to guide them. They set their own limits. We bring out the best in each other.”

Robotic. Like a speech. Like a mantra he says in the mirror.

“Maybe that’s true,” John says. He follows Oliver off the platform. “Do you remember?" John stands right behind Oliver. Oliver turns around, leaning against the table, the points of the arrows just inches from his spine. It’d just take one hard push to impale him. Funny. Oliver probably feels safer with his tools at his back. “In the chamber on Lian Yu, when I said only the pure of heart could enter?”

“Yes. I walked in behind you. No smiting occurred.”

“See,” John continues, ignoring that bit of snark, “I’ve made my share of mistakes and fucked up quite a bit, but in the ancient definition of the term, I am ‘pure’ of heart. Good intentions, road to hell, all that. But you--” he pauses, and his eyes fall to the rise and fall of Oliver’s chest under the thin cotton of his t-shirt, like if he can feel the beating on the flat of his palm he’ll prove himself wrong-- “I think there’s nothing there.”

Oliver stands still.

“You left something in the ocean,” John continues, watching Oliver's breath, feeling like he’s very close to picking the lock on a very heavy steel door. “After the wreck. Since then, love hasn’t burned quite as hot, has it? Rage a bit more methodical? Sadness not so bone-deep?”

When John looks up, Oliver’s staring at him, but his eyes are just as flat and unreadable as ever. “You surround yourself with these people,” John continues. “Who feel very deeply. And love strongly, and fight hard for your cause. But you don’t really feel anything unless you’re wearing the mask, right?”

They’re standing very close together. John's gooseflesh is back again. The rate of Oliver's breathing is unchanged by John’s ranting. With one strike of his hand in the right place on John’s neck, Oliver could end this conversation, and possibly unleash the hounds of hell onto the world as well. But he doesn’t know that last part. 

"Do you do this a lot?" Oliver asks, voice light. "Break into people's houses and try to dissect them?"

"Actually, yeah, a fair amount."

"I appreciate your help today, John," he says, steadily, "But I think you should leave."

John takes a step backwards and the chill rushes in to fill the space. "All right, all right. Thanks for the drink, mate." He climbs the steps to the platform again, dropping the glass on the desk with a plink and stomping across the symbol he painted just hours ago, rubbing his toe against it. Still dry. Will be a few more hours before it begins to flake. "You know--" When he turns around, Oliver is still leaning there, watching him stalk towards the door. "I didn't mean any offense."

"Sure you didn't."

"Truly!" John holds his hands up in surrender. "I've left pieces of myself all over this godforsaken planet. London, New York, Newcastle." Newcastle-- when does that spill out of his mouth without prompting? Oliver's mouth is twisted into a slight frown. "Even Lian Yu. Spit up a little bit with all the blood I got on those big scary army boots of yours. Point is," he shuffles down the stairs on the other side of the platform, and heads for the elevator, and realizes, he isn't sure what the point is. Point is, call me? Point is, we made a good team? Point is, you're scary but I think I understand it and will likely make it worse? He settles on: "I'm available for drinks."

"Goodbye, John," Oliver says.

The elevator is silent. He rides it up and up. The gooseflesh recurs for three days.


End file.
